


Holy Palmers' Kiss

by elizajane



Series: How She Loved You [5]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Guy Fawkes Day, Guy Fawkes Day is an odd day for declarations of love, I hope William Shakespeare enjoyed sex this much, Outdoor Sex, Possessive Behavior, Secrets, Touching, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-09
Updated: 2011-10-09
Packaged: 2017-10-24 10:56:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/262693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizajane/pseuds/elizajane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If anyone had known to ask Sybil Crawley in the weeks after she and Gwen Dawson become lovers what surprised her most about this new chapter of her life she would have answered: touch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holy Palmers' Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Thanks, as always, to Crowgirl for the beta and encouragement.  
> 2) I've been informed by Crowgirl that an inequal number of orgasms is not okay, so there will be a coda for this fic in which Sybil returns the favor. I'm thinking some smutty talk and linen cupboards.  
> 3) I haven't yet seen Season 2 of Downton Abbey so all of this is based purely on Season 1.  
> 4) Chronologically speaking, this bit covers the same period as "Stolen Moments" (summer of 1913 to Guy Fawkes Day) and comes before "Before the War" for obvious reasons. One of these days, I'll probably reorder the pieces.

_Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,  
Which mannerly devotion shows in this;  
For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,  
And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss._  
~William Shakespeare, _Romeo and Juliet_

If anyone had known to ask Sybil Crawley in the weeks after she and Gwen Dawson become lovers what surprised her most about this new chapter of her life she would have answered: touch.

Not that anyone knew, or – if they had known – would have cared for an honest answer.But Sybil rolls her answer to the unasked question around anyway anyway, in the weeks and months that follow that first night – that moment when Gwen had chooses. That moment when Gwen stays.

Touch.

It is not an answer she would have known to give if someone had asked -- in the weeks, or months, or years before she and Gwen had come together in that way – if someone had asked: “What do you expect? How will it be?”

If anyone had asked Sybil, in the weeks or months or years before she and Gwen first made love what it would feel like -- to be Gwen's lover -- she would not have had the words to say.

Images, perhaps -- she often thought in pictures. There was something about the shape, the curve, of their two bodies together in her minds' eye that _looked_ right. The way a line of charcoal on a blank page, a daub of color on a canvas, was _right_ when she translated what she saw just so.

And she did have images now – saturated snatches of color, sharp photographic visuals, flickering motion picture movements – that she carried in her mind's eye.

Yet they had also been joined by _sensations_ : Her skin felt bruised, abraised, as if she were coming down with a fever. She moved through her days feeling raw. Desirous. _Craving_ touch in new and immediate ways. Ways that, at times, seemed to pull her apart at the seams, to scatter her existence in a thousand different directions in the absence of Gwen's hands on her in that moment bringing her back to earth. Grounding her in the here-and-now, in the warmth and weight of skin against skin, the solidity of flesh and bone.

Holding herself apart from Gwen had long taken taken effort, it was true. Effort that had begun even before she was consciously aware of it: a spider-fine network of steeled nerves and well-schooled muscles. Later, when conscious: constant vigilance not to give herself away -- either to Gwen or to anyone who might see, and ... well, interpret all too correctly, a gesture, a word.

Then, at last, the scarcely-hoped-for moment came: the moment Gwen shed her nightclothes and came to her, gave her permission to touch, to meld, to let go of the discipline holding her apart so that now they were, finally, together.

Touch.

* * *

Only in retrospect does Sybil realize how little the people in whose presence she existed touched one another. When they do touch one another it is a formality: dressing, bathing, being escorted to the dining room, helped in and out of a carriage or an automobile.

How had she touched as a child? Sybil finds herself wondering about this now – a new question, for this new chapter in her life.

She hasn't anyone to ask. She imagines how the conversation with Mary or Edith might go:

“Did mother kiss us goodnight?”

“What? Why ever would you ask such a question. Of course she did.”

“How?”

“What do you mean 'how'?”

“I mean – was it a quick peck on the forehead? Did she hold us tight and whisper 'sweet dreams'?”

Sybil can't remember, yet she suddenly, urgently _needs_ to.

Her skin prickles with the shock of her own need and she can't understand how she survived all of these years starved of touch. On an abstract level, she realizes in retrospect, her body had known it craved the contact. She holds will-o-the-wisp memories of waking up in the middle of the night aching, lonely, tears on her cheeks. Tendrils of inchoate dreams wrapped around her like the thorny wild roses that crawl up and over her mother's arbor.

What she does remember, with painful clarity, is how – in those moments – she would hold her breath and body still, _willing_ the echo of touch to be real, _willing_ the pressure on her skin to be more than an illusion.

Then: breathe in, breathe out – it was gone.

How did she survive all of these years without the warmth of Gwen's palms moving across her skin?Without the wet heat of Gwen's lips trailing kisses across her collarbone? Without the certainty every time Gwen looks at her across a crowded room that she is _known_. Without the understanding that Gwen's hands prickle with a knowledge similar to that which Sybil's own hands can trace: every hollow and curve, every scar, every dimple.

In answer to the unspoken question, _what has most surprised you?,_ Sybil thinks she might simply raise her hands in supplication: _this_.

* * *

Touch.

Gwen is perceptive enough to see when she needs it, Sybil realizes. No matter how well Sybil herself believes she can control the quivering in her limbs, the heat jumping from her skin. Gwen knows – a glance, a quick brush in the hallway, the tenor of a cough or a sigh. In those moments, sometimes, Sybil can't bear to make eye contact when they both know there is no escape – no relief to be found amidst the whirl of household activity, upstairs and down. She carries the ache deep in her belly, feeling it lick flames along her skin, building between her thighs, swaying her being dangerously close to exposure: She would give anything – _anything!_ – for the freedom to fling herself across the room and into Gwen's arms.

Eventually, always, Gwen will come to her rescue. Silently, without fuss or furtiveness. Some way to make contact – to press skin to skin, as simple as that. The press of a hand against the nape of Sybil's neck, the brush of a wrist as they pass in the hall. The promise of palms sliding over her flanks, gripping her hips, the reassuring warmth of Gwen's belly pressed against her buttocks – there and gone again almost before Sybil can consciously register the presence of touch. But not before her body does

And this is the surprising thing: It's the simple act of touching Gwen, of maintaining physical contact, that she seems to need above all else. Yes, she wants – always wants – on some level to take it deeper, explore cavities and crevices, planes of skin and secret corners. Tastes and smells. But the instant her skin makes contact with Gwen it's as if all the pent-up need relaxes into the inevitability of eventual love-making.

Time stops when touch begins.

She wonders, sometimes, how other people stand the isolation of not-touching. She watches her family, covertly, going about their daily lives and wonders whether they too experience the sensation of overwhelming need – for touch, skin to skin, warm and immediate – if they too fear (as she does) that if the right hands – their lovers' hands, she thinks – don't touch them, grip them, anchor them to the earth – if the right hands don't hold them together they might begin to blur at the edges like a watercolor left in the rain. Might become indistinct and without form, without volition.

The feel of Gwen's hands hot and urgent, cool and calming, light and playful, firm and possessive.

They are what bring her back to earth, back into her skin.

* * *

Which is how they have arrived here, Sybil thinks, looking up at a night sky shot through with stars.

It's Guy Fawkes Day and, from her vantage point at the top of the east tower, she can see the flickering light of the bonfire the children of the estate have spent their day constructing. Her parents are hosting a house party and the visitors had thought it a sporting idea to troop off after the meal to watch Guy Fawkes be burnt in effigy. Sybil remembers, as a child, taking part in the day-long hunt for timber in the woods. Remembers how her parents would contribute discarded clothes from the rag bag for the construction of the Guy.

Tonight, however, the only thing she can think, as the party gathers itself to walk out-of-doors, is the opportunity this impromptu outing creates for herself and Gwen. They've barely seen each other for three days, in lead-up to the visitors' arrival. Gwen has been busy turning out bedrooms, assisting in the kitchen and the laundry, and what moments they managed to snatch were fleeting caresses, palm pressed against palm, fingers flickering along the inside of an exposed wrist, lips brushing against the curl of an earlobe. Sybil's morning and evening toilet were the longest intervals during which they could be sure of contact, and even then it was often interrupted by the comings and goings of Sybil's sisters or mother, or of other household staff.

They had always to be careful.

Gwen has been watching her all evening, with that _look_ in her eye that Sybil has learned to anticipate. Gwen says Sybil herself has such a look – one that Gwen has told Sybil with a laugh is her “touch me now or I shall surely die” look.

It feels like that, sometimes, watching Gwen across the parlor or the dining room and knowing theycannot, must not.

It feels like dying – like fading away to nothingness. Her skin starts to feel transparent, her clothing too tight and rough, her chest tight with longing.

Gwen doesn't say, but Sybil has taken note of how her hands will twist in the cloth of her aprons, how the hair at the nape of her neck grows dark with sweat.

And she knows from experience, now, that Gwen wants it as much as she does.

They know one another well, by now, which is why she knows without the two women having exchanged a single word, that Gwen will find her here as soon as she can slip free of belowstairs. It will soon be too cold for this particular secret place, Sybil thinks. Too cold, at least, given what sort of activity they usually come here seeking.

She closes her eyes and breathes in the cold night air, smelling of damp autumn leaves and – distantly – woodsmoke. She can hear the high voices of the children, the lower murmur of adults, laughter and high spirits below.

“I thought I would never get away!” And suddenly Gwen is there, breathless from the climb, her voice filled with high spirits of a different kind. She crosses the space between them and catches Sybil's outstretched hands in her own, pressing forward until they are fitted together from knee to breastbone, fingers twined together then sliding from palm to wrist to elbow to shoulder blades, pulling close, closer.

Sybil feels her chest immediately expand, releasing the knot of tension she's been carrying since the last time they touched and parted. The world feels right again, everything in its place.

Gwen laughs, low and contented, at the noise Sybil makes. “Surely – you cannot have missed me _that_ much, love, I've been here the whole time!”

“You know that counts hardly at all,” Sybil pulls Gwen to her with hands splayed across the other woman's back. She feels their bellies meet – buries her face in Gwen's shoulder. It is an old argument by now – hardly an argument at all. Both of them are awed by the steady, burning desire that holds them together. It's been almost nine months now and there are days when Sybil thinks it could not possibly become more intense – and then she wakes the following day breathless with longing.

“I wanted, I want, I need, I can't--” She is incapable of gathering her thoughts into words – hasn't been able to think beyond this moment all evening, when they would finally be able to make such contact.

“I know, I know, it's alright, I'm here, I could tell--” Gwen's hands are already busy beneath Sybil's woolen cloak, fingers nimble in the dark as she unhooks the fastenings of Sybil's dress.

Being the lover of a woman who had spent her life dressing others had certain advantages.

Sybil is shaking, suddenly, only partly from the cold. Gwen's hands are maintaining contact, moving steadily across her back and up and down her arms, pulling firmly at the cloth that separates her hands from Sybil's skin. She's murmuring, soothing nonsense phrases that Sybil only hears as vibrations where her hands are running restlessly up and down Gwen's ribs.

“Been so long--” Gwen smiles into Sybil's neck as she pushes Sybil's dress down off her hips, taking the cotton drawers too so that Sybil is left in her stockings and garters and silk slippers beneath the lined cloak tied around her shoulders. She can feel the cold wind eddying around her shins, climbing the skin of her thighs. Her flesh breaks out in goose pimples.

“You had your way with me just Monday last,” Gwen points out.

“Too long.” Sybil leans into the warmth of Gwen's capable hands, hands which are now spreading wide around her hips, thumbs sliding into the crease of her thigh where skin meets fur. The tips of Gwen's fingers trace the garter belt where it cuts into Sybil's waist.

“Demanding.”

“Wanting.”

“Well,” and it hasn't escaped Sybil – as dazed as she is from the feel of Gwen's hands on her body – that Gwen's voice has gone a bit breathless too. Sybil is clearly not the only one wanting, “well, let's see what we can do about that, shall we, _milady_.”

“Sybil.” Sybil corrects automatically, her fingers digging into the flesh of Gwen's arms as she pulls Gwen into the voluminous folds of her cloak for a kiss.

It's the first proper kiss they've shared in over forty-eight hours which, the _thrum_ of Sybil's blood is telling her, is far too long a wait. She presses in urgently, teeth and tongue, using her own lips to force Gwen's mouth wide, tracing the line her Gwen's jaw with the tip of her fingers, feeling the way Gwen's cheek goes taut with the pressure. Gwen's tongue meets her own; they fill each others' mouths. Sybil drags cold air in through her nose, feels Gwen do the same. Gwen is making small aching noises in the back of her throat, her hands convulsing against Sybil's pelvis – in the morning there will be bruises.

They've stopped being careful about this, a fact which neither of them has spoken of and about which Sybil tries not to contemplate. She knows they are courting discovery always, feels the recklessness of uncaring pulsing beneath the surface of her skin – the skin that Gwen is currently licking and smoothing and – _commanding_ – she gasps as Gwen wraps one arm against the small of her back and slips the other hand down between them, raking ungentle fingers through the sweat-damp curls that sprout between Sybil's legs – _oh!_

Gwen moans into her neck when her fingers slide between Sybil's folds, feel how wet she has already become. Sybil can feel the racing of Gwen's heart against her own breast – somehow one of her hands has come to be pressed against Gwen's chest, nipples so hard Sybil can feel them even through layers of cotton and wool. “Oh, Sybil, love – I – need – ”

Sybil sinks involuntarily to her knees, the cold of the stone beneath them seeping through even the cloak and her own discarded clothes. Her temperature has spiked, though, as if she had a fever, and the cold almost comes as a relief. She can feel sweat blooming across the small of her back, between her thighs. Her muscles spasm with the sudden need to move, and she lets herself collapse backward, dragging Gwen down on top of her. She arches across the stone, spreading herself out on the expanse of wool, spreading her legs wide and wrapping them around Gwen's waist to keep her close.

“Need--”

Gwen laughs silently as she looms above Sybil in the dark, the opacity of her form outlined against the waning moon, the scattering of evening stars.

“Yes, love, I know, I know, I--” She's managed to keep one hand – the key hand – where they both want it to be, and with a ragged breath she bows her head (Sybil can see in her mind's eye the way Gwen's eyes flutter closed as the moment overwhelms her) and pushes three fingers deep inside.

Sybil arches up, hands scrabbling, head thrown back. She can feel hairpins working their way out, knows dimly they should be worried about Gwen's clothes – but then Gwen _shoves_ hard and Sybil feels the way her fingers press up and in, the base of Gwen's thumb flush against unyielding bone and the knuckle of her smallest digit hard against the taut muscle beneath the point where her fingers disappear into Sybil's body.

 _This._

Sybil reaches down with her hand, grasps Gwen's wrist, and pins the older woman to her, _into_ her.

“Mine.” She gasps. Pants.

“Yes,” comes the response, almost a gasp itself. Sybil can just see the glint of Gwen's eyes as Gwen raises her head to look into her face, leans into the touch.

Once.

Twice.

Sybil pulls her weight forward and rocks into a sitting position, a maneuver they've done a few times before – enough so that Gwen feels the motion gathering in Sybil's pelvic muscles and anticipates, catches her across the shoulders – hand to the nape of her neck – cradling Sybil's naked form against the starched linen of her workday apron. Sybil can smell the scents of cleaning fluid and the evening meal underneath the musk of her arousal and the familiar tang of Gwen's sweat. Her thighs are spread wide and shaking, Gwen still inside her, fingers twisting, pulling, coaxing her closer.

She loves this – _all_ of this. The smell of Gwen (and herself on Gwen) in her nose, the heat she feels spilling from her own skin, the fire burning through her veins, the pressure building in her groin, the pressure – _yes, please God, yes_ – the grip of Gwen's hands firm at her neck and locked inside her below, still pinned between them.

They're shuddering together, rocking back and forth in the dark of the night.

Sybil thinks that perhaps she could stay like this forever, wrapped tight in Gwen's arms, breathing the same air. She feels wholly contained in her own skin – anchored to the earth, to the here-and-now – by the weight of Gwen's body surrounding, invading her.

She has never ceased to marvel at this strange alchemy of bodies coming together, then falling apart. For it is always at this moment when she feels most present in her body - most enveloped, contained, most _solid_ \- that the spidery network of cracks begin deep, deep inside.

One moment she thinks she and Gwen could remain like this – rocking, pressing, breathing, holding – until dawn, and beyond.

The next her tremors begin, and spread, her thighs locking tight around Gwen's waist, ankles locking, arches of her feet spasming. She stops breathing, jaw locked – she can taste blood as a tooth cuts her bottom lip – and as Gwen bears down on the pad of her thumb Sybil simultaneously heaves herself away from and thrusts forward against the pleasure-almost-pain. Gwen's arms hold steady, demanding, refusing to give way as Sybil rides out the force of her climax before falling back against Gwen's chest in a damp and gasping muddle.

At which point Gwen gathers her back in and holds her close. She lays Sybil back against the (rapidly cooling) folds of her cloak and stretches out beside her. Sybil murmurs, wordlessly, into Gwen's hair. She's not even sure what she's trying to say: _Love you don't leave me never leave me stay stay and touch me keep touching me don't go you are so warm so warm I am warm will warm you stay want you to stay and keep me warm touch love you to touch me touch me here and here and here and love you will love you always love you hold me keep me safe._

“I know,” Gwen whispers, one hand curling under Sybil's neck to pull her close, splays her other hand across Sybil's ribs, smoothing her palm smoothly from breast to belly and back in sweeping arcs, moving in steady, slow circles from Sybil's collarbone to her upper thighs. Sybil feels as though her muscles are being massaged back into place, molded over her bones, formed into a shape that ultimately fits itself against Gwen's body from shoulder to ankle. “I know.”

She is dozing, fluttering on the edge of sleep. Knows the cold will soon be creeping back. Knows that, soon (always too soon) they will need to gather her clothes back up and dress her well enough to get her back to her room, return Gwen to the servants quarters before the rest of the household returns from the bonfire.

In this moment, however, she will sink into the weight of being, into the feel of Gwen's uniform against her cooling skin, into the strong, sure strokes of Gwen's hands.

 _This_ , she thinks, _this_.

 _This_ is the surprise she never could have anticipated: the overwhelming _embodiment_ of love.


End file.
